Page 36 of Four Cards Exposed

Dom’s lower lip quivered. James’s heart broke when he thought of how long the boy had lived with this awful fear inside him.

“Now go home, Dom. We don’t want your mom to worry.” He handed him the milk. “Take it. Charlie needs it more than I do. And buy him some food,” he said, pressing a couple of notes into the boy’s hand.

“Her.”

“Her?”

“Charlie’s a girl. My mom said so.”

“Her, then. Give this to your mom and get Charlie some food, okay?”

Dom nodded. James steered him towards the door. In one hand, he carried the milk. His other arm was pulled against his body, cradling the now sleepy kitten burrowed in the crook of his arm.

“Anything you need, you call me, Dom,” James said quietly. He closed the door and leaned back against it, feeling the weight of his decisions.

A butterfly flaps its wings and, somewhere, a tsunami hits.

Or something like that.

“Are you okay, James?” Susan asked. She’d taken off her heels. Standing there, barefoot and wriggling her toes, she looked younger again, and so beautiful it hurt to look at her.

* * *

Susan

She watched his hard body sag against the door. The conversation with the boy had taken a lot out of him—more than the fight, even.

“I’m okay,” he said, breathing harshly through his nose.

Susan picked up the half-frozen bag of peas and walked towards him, pressed it gently against his cheek where a bruise was already blooming. Now that she’d taken off those ridiculous heels, she had to go on tiptoes to reach him.

For a moment, he leaned into her touch.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she said.

“I’m okay, Susan.”

She picked up on the use of her name. “Is it safe—“

“No cameras, no microphones. I sweep religiously every single day. And nobody has been inside while we were gone.”

She nodded and took his hand in hers, bringing the bag of peas against bloody knuckles. He hissed a sharp breath but didn’t move away.

“Is that the bathroom?” she asked, already moving towards a small door. The bare essentials sat on the sink. A comb, a toothbrush, a masculine-looking deodorant, and a bottle of ibuprofen.

James had followed her in. He picked up his toothbrush and brushed his teeth quickly, not looking her in the eyes as he did so.

Susan wet a washcloth and picked up the ibuprofen bottle, then headed back out to the main room, where she pointed at the dining table. James sat on one of the mismatched, rickety chairs, a hand pulled tight against his ribs.

She tipped the bottle until she had two pills on her palm. Judging by the number left, he’d been popping them like candy.

“Should we go to the hospital?” she asked as he swallowed the pills dry.

He inhaled deeply, his expression stoic, then shook his head. “I must have cracked a couple of ribs. But nothing’s broken.”

She cleaned his face first, then moved to his knuckles. The washcloth went pink, then red.

“Can you move your fingers?”